


tel garas solasan

by overtlyobscure



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But expect some amount of violence eventually, Elvhenan/Arlathan AU, Lavellan is there and so are the Evanuris, Rating is subject to change and likely will at some point, of a sort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 11:54:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16832131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overtlyobscure/pseuds/overtlyobscure
Summary: Lavellan wakes then, breathes. The first breath is always a struggle, a painful thing that aches in her throat.--In which Lavellan is a follower of Sylaise in ancient Elvhenan and something feels not quite right





	tel garas solasan

**Author's Note:**

> I have like twenty WIPS I should be working on so I wrote this whole new thing instead. 
> 
> I didn't want to get too specific with Lavellan's description (though her personality is largely based on my inquisitor) so she will be referred to as just Lavellan even if that makes no sense for the context of the fic. Trade offs and all that. The great thing about the lack of DA's elven lore is that I can do whatever I want with it. The bad thing is that there are lots of little bits of information that I just don't know what to do with. Please tell me more about the Forgotten Ones, Bioware, please.
> 
> Inspiration for spirits and shapeshifting elves from Feynite's lovely fic [Looking Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867676/chapters/11157401), which if you haven't read, you really should.

There is light. And there is nothing else. Bright, white, and blinding it consumes her vision, a formless thing that surrounds her. There is comfort here, a warmth that seeps into her skin and soothes the troubled edges of her thoughts.

_Hush,_ it says, _all is well. All is right._

Lavellan wakes then, breathes. The first breath is always a struggle, a painful thing that aches in her throat. Her eyes open and the process of waking feels briefly stifling before she sits up, light filtering through the canopy surrounding her bed.

Her gaze flits around the room, settling on the doors to the balcony and the abundant greenery beyond. There is bird song drifting through her open windows and a warm breeze which stirs the curtains.

A veritable paradise, where there is little for one such as herself to worry about. It does little soften the ever present ache that lingers in her chest. She has yet to suss out its purpose.

She rises then, pushes away the feeling of a weight on her shoulders, before padding out onto the balcony, the hem of her nightgown fluttering around her knees. She curls her toes against the cool tile and sucks in several lung fulls of fresh air.

Distantly, she hears the sound of her lady’s maid entering her chambers. Earlier than usual save that the whole of Sylaise’s complex is bustling with faithful, all in preparation for the impending visit to Mythal’s sprawling temple.

The atmosphere has been one of buzzing anticipation. Lavellan can’t seem to muster the same enthusiasm but turns to face her fate all the same. The day promises to be a long one.

~~

She joins Sylaise’s entourage clad in layers of diaphanous, gauzy chiffon which whisper across the floor around her feet in a long train. The gown does little to encourage movement, designed for its appearance over anything else.

Though there are pockets hidden in the excess of fabric. Somewhere.

Pockets not withstanding, the effect of the thing is utterly stifling, the skirts forcing the wearer to take tiny steps to create the illusion of gliding along the floor. It sets an infuriatingly slow pace as she and the others shuffle along the hallways.

She can think of little she has done in her life which might merit such an honor. A pretty face, Lavellan supposes, is all that ever necessitated being party to an Evanuris’ inner circle. And she performs her duties admirably enough, carrying herself with the grace and charm expected of her. She has almost perfected her shuffle.

They pass through Sylaise’s palace in a meandering line, the other faithful murmuring softly amongst themselves. Sylaise herself awaits them in one of the many courtyards which outfit the complex, vault ceilinged hallways giving way to grassy open space flourishing with plant life.

The entourage spread through the garden, flitting about like gossamer birds. Sylaise’s favorite spirits are all ready here. Admiration, Love and Patience, they flutter and preen about the Evanuris’ head, who sits serenely in the center of the garden.

Lavellan draws away from the others to settle on a bench beside a bed of flowery bushes. She misses those days when her status afforded her time to pursue her own interests, days characterized by the dirt on her hands and the smell of herbs lingering on her clothes. Likely it was those same endeavors which garnered Sylaise’s attention in the first place, though what part appealed to the Evanuris, Lavellan has little idea.

She has no time to dwell on the thought when Sylaise stands, drawing the attention of her party with a delicate cough.

“You, who are my most faithful,” she says, and smiles, a radiant thing which draws her people closer like flowers to the sun, “are blessed this day as we prepare to journey to greet the All-Mother. May her light shine upon us all and turn towards you who are most deserving.”

It is a very honeyed warning to behave themselves. As if Sylaise’s people would do anything save fawn in the face of Mythal.

Lavellan’s attention is drawn from the flowery speech by a nudge against her leg, an enormous white rabbit seated at her feet.

“Nyvian,” she says and watches as the rabbit climbs up beside her on the bench.

The rabbit turns his scarlet eyes to appraise her, “You’re looking . . . well.”

“Thank you,” Lavellan returns and shifts a half measure further away.

Nyvian is tiresome to talk to at the best of times. And is still somehow more tolerable than anyone else currently in the courtyard. It is a strange, uneasy sort of companionship that they have formed and yet Lavellan is grateful in some ways for it. The old elf is so far the only one in the entourage to make any motions of friendship towards her.

“How do you suppose they’ll fare?” he says, nodding at the others before settling his head deeper into the sizeable dewlap about his neck.

Lavellan thinks he looks rather like an ancient tortoise basking on a warm rock.

“The same as always,” she guesses, thinking of the usual veiled sniping that inevitably accompanies a visit between Evanuris.

Nyvian laughs, eyes slitting half closed, “That’s right. You haven’t joined us for a visit to the _All-Mother._ ”

He draws out Mythal’s title with a sarcastic sort of irreverence.

“Tripping over themselves to gain her notice,” he grumbles, “and more spiteful than ever. Embarrassing.”

Lavellan blinks and holds her tongue. Nyvian has always been one to offer insults before flattery. But she’ll be the last to point that out. She’ll take the protection his sharp tongue affords her.

The rabbit lifts his ears and looks her squarely in the face, “Tread carefully. They will be watching you. Waiting for a misstep.”

She turns to watch the others, scattered through the garden, hands raised to cover their conversation and knows Nyvian is right.

~~

The trip through the eluvian network takes exceedingly long and Lavellan considers not for the first time lifting her skirts to just walk for once, never mind the chewing out she’d receive for doing so. She also considers tossing Nyvian off the side of bridge their currently crossing, the oversized rabbit heavy in her arms.

“Perhaps another form might make things more expedient,” she suggests, as if she has any sway over him.

Nyvian snorts, “This form suits me just fine.”

She wonders why she ever speaks to him.

“You could be somewhat smaller,” she presses, jostling him as she hefts him more securely in her grasp.

“Do you mind?” he says and she knows that is all the answer she’s going to get.

Lavellan watches the water flowing at its drowsy pace below them. He wouldn’t drown, she thinks. And it would be so very satisfying. She shakes off the urge, though. Better such fantasies stay fantasies.

She opts instead to leave him at the base of the steps leading to Mythal’s eluvian. Unencumbered, she ascends with ease, ignoring Nyvian’s protests.

“You’re legs work perfectly well,” she calls from the top and steps into line with the others as they gather around the eluvian.

Sylaise approaches the mirror, hand raised to press it to the glass which shimmers under her touch. With a gesture to her entourage, she turns and steps through, spirits close at her side. Lavellan draws a breath, suddenly nervous, and smooths the layers of her gown before following after.

They are greeted on the other side by a myriad of servants, faces marked with Mythal’s twining branches. Sylaise goes off to be received by her mother, somewhere in the depths of the temple. It will be some hours yet before the rest of them will see Mythal as the party is busy settling into their chambers.

Lavellan wanders away from all the bustle, given leave to explore the complex. She settles on a patio on the perimeter of the temple, one which overlooks the forest below. A spirit joins her then, though she’s uncertain of what it is.

It floats beside her at the banister, appraising her with eyes that burn bright white and orbit about each other like miniature planets. It is tall, a warm golden color which shimmers in the light, its outline one which confides a sort of inner strength.

She offers it a small nod, “Hello.”

It tilts its head, drifts from its place at one side to her other and still says nothing. Lavellan watches, unnerved. She isn’t used to such attentions, particularly from spirits.

“You are different,” it finally says.

Like many spirits, its voice is strange, both booming and soft all at once, imbued with self assured confidence. She steps back, at a loss for a response to its strange proclamation.

“I’m not sure I understand,” she says.

It laughs, clearly amused, “No, you do not. And you will not. Not yet at least.”

She shrugs, familiar at least with the tendency of spirits to be vague, “Very well. Will you at least tell me what you are?”

It draws itself up, edges solidifying for a moment. She quirks at an eyebrow at the display.

“Resolve,” it says and continues, “I think I shall accompany you today.”

Far be it from Lavellan to tell a spirit of resolve what to do once it has made up its mind. She gestures to the doors of the balcony in a motion of ascent. It drifts ahead of her, clearly deciding to take the lead.

“Come,” it says when she lingers a moment too long outside.

She follows then, having little idea where the spirit intends to bring her. Still, it gives her the opportunity to take in the temple. It is both very similar and different from Sylaise’s complex, high ceilinged and decorated with intricate mosaics. But it is much . . . golder than the palace Lavellan is familiar with. The courtyards are much larger, too, burgeoning with enormous trees, waterfalls coursing out of gaps in the roof.

And there are spirits, many more than at home. Wisps race among the trees like little birds, landing on one branch before dancing off to another. And there are others, whose nature’s she cannot identify, drifting along through the hallways, conversing with Mythal’s people. The All-Mother’s court is much livelier, she thinks. Though perhaps it is only due to Sylaise’s presence.

Resolve draws her from her musings, leading her out the other end of a narrow hallway into another spacious courtyard which opens up to a view of the surrounding forest. The space is dominated by a long dirt pitch flanked by thin canals of flowing water. Delicate, flowering trees line the perimeter, white petals falling sedately to the ground.

It makes for a very pretty training ground. She joins Resolve on a bench to watch the few elves there, engaged in various forms of combat practice, some with swords, others with magic. She folds her hands in her lap, fingers twitching.

Resolve seems to notice and asks, “Do you know how to fight?”

She shakes her head despite the twinge of longing in her chest. She has never held a sword, never wielded her magic for anything but herb cultivation. Still, she watches, fascinated, eyes trained on the clamorous meetings of metal against metal. There is something about it that draws her in.

“Perhaps you should learn,” the spirit says and nods to itself like it has decided something.

She’s not sure she wants to know what and isn’t given the opportunity to ask as the great doors to the courtyard swing open, giving way to Mythal accompanied by Sylaise and a small party of elves who Lavellan doesn’t recognize.

Lavellan is struck first by the similarities between Sylaise and her mother, dark hair cascading in waves down their backs. Their eyes both sharp and keen in that distinctive way which she can’t quite pinpoint. It is particularly unnerving when both pairs turn her way.

She rises from the bench and bends into a low bow.

Sylaise smiles and steps towards her, drawing her closer to Mythal, “Mother, this is my newest protégé. Very promising.”

Lavellan is not sure that protégé is the appropriate word for what she is. But she wouldn’t dare to correct an Evanuris and bows her head respectfully instead.

“Blessings, All-Mother.”

“Blessings upon you, child,” Mythal says, a hard glint in her eyes even as her words sound gentle, “may you bring fortune to my daughter’s hold.”

It seems Sylaise’s looks are not the only thing she inherited from her mother.

Lavellan bows again and Mythal and Sylaise move off, apparently here to inspect the elves training in the courtyard. She draws back towards her bench, Resolve still waiting there. She can just make out the conversation, the members of the entourage praising Mythal, Sylaise thoughtfully nodding her head as her mother describes her warriors’ prowess.

Her attention is drawn away from the Evanuris towards the wolf which has stopped at the rear of the group. Large in stature with a thick, dark coat, it stands out amongst the others in the entourage. She sits a little straighter when she realizes its eyes are one her, grey-blue gaze practically staring through her.

It seems almost startled, ears forward and utterly still.

It seems almost as if it knows her.


End file.
